Of Doctors and Detectives
by VR Trakowski
Summary: Det. Curtis runs into an odd stranger.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker, Paramount, the Bride of the Great Bird of the Galaxy, and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. All others are mine, and if you want to play with them you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: general eighth season. **

**Okay, so I had this dream... **

**...**

**...**

**Never mind. Boubabe14 and Smacky30, I apologize. Deeply. This story is dedicated to Mingsmommy, Tres Mechante, Elfling65, Cincoflex, and Inalichenmanner, who are all complete **_**nutbars.**_** Every one of them. **

**Of course, what does that make me...? **

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sofia sighed, and prepared to go through the round of questions yet again...not that she expected better answers this time. "What did you see when the gunfire broke out?"

The man opposite her had his arms folded and a sour expression on his rather lived-in face. "I told you, I didn't see a thing." He had a slight drawl, and pain lines in his forehead, and Sofia's cop gut wanted to trust him.

Her head, however, smelled a rat.

"So you're saying that a full-scale gun battle erupts thirty yards away and you see _nothing?"_

The witness snorted. His eyes were a vivid, tired blue, his features pleasantly ordinary. "That's right. As soon as those young fools started shooting I took cover."

Behind an abandoned car, according to his statement earlier. Sofia wondered wearily why he had been in Las Vegas' most dangerous neighborhood; he'd denied all the obvious reasons.

_I suppose he would, though._

"Yet we found you right next to one of the victims." She gave him stare for stare, unintimidated.

The man--he'd given his name, reluctantly, as "McCoy"--harrumphed. "I'm a _doctor,"_ he growled.

Sofia regarded him with professional doubt. "I'm sure the AMA would be happy to confirm your credentials." He had no ID on him, just a handful of odd-looking toys and something that really resembled a shoulder bag.

McCoy's face went still. "I'm...not licensed here."

Sofia sighed. "Of course not." She tapped the table, rapidly running out of patience. His prints weren't on file, he hadn't run from the responding officers, and while the victim he'd been standing over was dead, the man opposite her had been applying pressure to the kid's gunshot wounds as though he'd never heard of AIDS. Strange as it seemed, he looked to be that rara avis, a true innocent bystander.

She pressed her thumb between her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to stave off a headache, then sighed again. "All right, Mr. McCoy. You're free to go, though we'd appreciate it if you'd look at some mug shots for us first."

He squinted at her, a thoughtful look; Sofia thought absently that when he wasn't sulking, his face showed an astonishing flexibility. His eyebrows, in particular--

She blinked. _I need coffee more than I thought._

McCoy smiled slowly, and the expression was surprisingly warm. "Sure. Why not."

So she escorted him from Interrogation Three to a friendlier room, observing him covertly as they walked. His outfit was subtly odd, not fitting any fashion that she knew, but this was Vegas and they got all types. The cut of his brown hair looked to be left over from the previous century, though.

Sofia got him settled at the table where he could look out into the corridor if he chose, and turned to go fetch the books of booking photos, but his voice stopped her. "Head ache?"

She shrugged, glancing back. "A little."

McCoy reached into his bag--they'd returned his things after a search turned up nothing of interest--and pulled out a small box that he tapped once against his palm. A white pill dropped out, though Sofia couldn't actually see an opening in the box.

He extended his hand. "Here, take this."

Sofia thought about illegal drugs, about dangerous herbs, about her mother warning her never to take anything from a stranger. And then she thought about how much worse her headache was likely to get.

_What the hell. It's probably just aspirin anyway._

She took the pill and tossed it down dry. McCoy watched her swallow, then nodded, serious and satisfied. Sofia refrained from rolling her eyes until she had turned away.

It was forty minutes later and deep in a discussion with Captain Brass that she realized that her head didn't hurt at _all._

Dr. Leonard McCoy, MD, PhD, Commander, and Chief Physician of the starship _Enterprise,_ was royally annoyed. Inconvenienced, endangered, discomfited, but most especially _annoyed._

And when he got back where he belonged--assuming he did, and he wasn't going to lay any bets just now--he was going to have a few words with that bunch of interfering Orions, the Guardian of Forever, and Spock--in that order.

He grumbled to himself and kept turning pages, letting his eyes search automatically for those half-glimpsed faces full of sneering bravado and pathetic youth. _Projectile weapons--barbaric. _

Wincing, he rubbed at the ache in his side. It was never easy to lose a patient, even if that poor boy had been doomed from the second the bullets tore into him, and stress only made his condition worse.

Taking a deep breath, McCoy managed a quick relaxation exercise, admitting to himself if to no one else that Vulcans were good at meditation techniques, even if he'd never say so to Spock.

_I should've known better than to listen to him._

It had started small, which was unusual for the _Enterprise's_ Science Officer, but when he'd mentioned the Rihannsu McCoy had felt his ears pricking up--no offense meant to the company at the time. _Enterprise _had been due for some heavy maintenance, which meant extended shore leave for her crew, and after that unfortunate encounter with a Withiki parasite cloud he'd been looking forward to rest, recuperation, and recreation.

Starbase Eight, after all, was in the Boise system, which was blessed with three M-class planets. And while the citizens of Iota, Sigma, and Gamma had no imagination when naming their homeworlds, they did produce some of the best single malts found outside of the Sol system.

He'd even signed up for a three-world distillery tour.

But then Spock had cornered him and started up with his top-secret mission to save the galaxy, again, from some idiots mucking about in time...again. This time some damn fools were apparently trying to prevent the proto-Rihannsu from leaving Vulcan to found their own Star Empire, and since McCoy had experience with that particular species--

Well, it was all water under the proverbial bridge, just because some more damn fools, Orion "free traders" this time, had blundered down to the Guardian of Forever just when Spock was getting ready to use the thing, and in the ensuing firefight McCoy had fallen through the Guardian and into another battle--more primitive, but just as deadly.

_And now getting back depends on Spock surviving, then figuring out where I went, and__** then**__ talking the Guardian into cooperating. Not odds I like._

Spock surviving was almost a given, the man had more lives than a cat, but the rest of it was not so sure. McCoy sighed and closed the book in front of him.

_I'd feel a lot better about my chances if I hadn't dropped my phosphophthylate when I went through the Guardian. _

With the parasite medication, McCoy had been anticipating an easy and pain-free recovery from the Withiki infestation. Without it, his lifespan could be measured in weeks, and not very many of them either.

_Well, there's no point in worryin' about it just now. Where'd that pretty detective go? _

The analgesic had worked; that was easy to deduce from the relaxed lines in her face. McCoy bantered with her a little--he did love a smart woman--but she was clearly busy. He accepted her card--pretty quaint, an actual wood-pulp sheet with her contact codes--and was released out into the world again.

A world, and time, that had no place for him. McCoy found himself wandering the sidewalk, racking his brains as he tried to remember something, anything, about the history of Las Vegas.

In his time, Vegas was a rebuilt city five times the size, lush and green with manufactured water, but it was still something of a gambling haven. He'd never been there himself, but...

He halted, taken by a vision. Ahead lay the glittering lights of the Great Mohave Casino, and suddenly McCoy knew exactly what he was going to do to pass the time before he died, or Spock found him.

Smiling, he felt for the platinum rounds that Spock had given him in preparation for their leap to ancient Vulcan. _Now where around here would I find a pawn shop?_

She'd actually gotten off work early, for once. Not for the first time, Sofia blessed her career change to detective; they had two of the killers from the shootout and a good lead on the third, but the CSIs were still processing shell casings and footprints. Captain Brass had told her to pack it in for the night, and Sofia hadn't argued.

The morning sun felt good on her face as she left the PD behind, and on impulse she decided to take herself out for breakfast. It was too pretty a day to hurry home.

She put down the top on her guilty pleasure--otherwise known as her Mazda convertible--and drove towards the Strip, playing eenie-meenie-miney-mo with the casinos. She was in the mood for something classier than diner food.

Eventually she settled on the Atlantis, and took the long way up from the parking garage, passing through the poker tables on the way to the restaurant. Her eye caught on something familiar, and with a faint sense of startlement, Sofia recognized the witness from earlier in the night, seated with four others at one of the tables and looking pleasantly blank over his hand.

Moved by an impulse to see what the mystery man would do, Sofia halted and watched as the game played out. The stakes weren't sky-high, but they were fairly respectable, and the hand that McCoy won wasn't his first victory of the night to judge by the tidy pile of chips in front of him.

As the game finished, the players relaxed, one rising and moving off, and McCoy stretched and looked around, spotting Sofia as he turned his head. That slow smile spread over his face, and his eyes lit.

Sofia knew she should nod and keep walking, but abruptly she couldn't remember the last time someone outside of work had been glad to see her. So she smiled back.

McCoy swept his chips into his little bag, said something she couldn't quite hear to his opponents, and sauntered over to her, still smiling. "What brings a lovely lady like yourself to this joint, Detective?" he asked.

His flattery was outrageous, but the glimmer in his eyes was humorous, an enjoyment of the joke and an invitation to share it. Sofia felt her smile widen.

"Mimosas," she answered. "And the lobster salad."

One corner of McCoy's mouth climbed. "Well, how about that. We just broke for lunch ourselves. Would you allow me to buy you a drink? From one civil servant to another," he added drolly.

Sofia regarded him. He was a complete mystery who wasn't telling all he knew, and there was definitely something fishy going on. But the Atlantis was a very public place, and he seemed...fun.

_He's not a suspect, and I'm off the clock._

"Sure, why not." Sofia was aware of feeling slightly reckless, but it also felt good. She'd been too cautious lately, and it hadn't really gotten her anywhere.

Maybe it was time for a risk or two.

"That," McCoy drawled, "is the best news I've had all night." He held out an arm. "Shall we?"

Amused, and feeling vaguely like an escapee from the _Wizard of Oz_ film, Sofia linked her arm through his.

"So tell me, Detective, what's this city like?" he asked as they started towards the restaurant.

Sofia glanced over at him. "I'll give you all the details, if you'll call me Sofia. And remember that I carry a gun."

His grin widened. "I never go against the wishes of a lady, Sofia." Without bending his spine, he managed to give the impression of a bow. "Most of my friends call me Len."

Sofia chuckled. "And are you really a doctor?"

He reached over and patted her hand where it was hooked over his arm. "My dear, I've been known to cure a rainy day."


	2. Chapter 2

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker, Paramount, the Bride of the Great Bird of the Galaxy, and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. All others are mine, and if you want to play with them you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: general eighth season. **

**All righty then. It's been more than a year since I posted the original story, and I didn't mean for it to go further, but Mossley wrote such a great take on the idea that I had to, well, finish. So here it is at last, just in time for her birthday. Many happy returns of the day, Mossley, and thanks for both your patience and a really terrific Sofia/McCoy tale! **

**We're all still nutbars, though. **

**Thanks also to Cincoflex, for betaing supreme, and everyone else who squeed at the idea. Also, discerning fans will realize that I owe a great deal to Diane Duane's stellar ST:TOS novels, which to me are more canon than the actual canon. I hope she doesn't mind my mentioning a few incidents here.**

_************************_

McCoy tapped an analgesic into his palm and washed it down with a gulp of water, wishing he had his hypos. But spray hypodermics were one thing Vulcans _hadn't_ invented, so when packing for his trip with Spock McCoy had been forced to rely on more old-fashioned items.

He sighed and leaned back against the headboard of his motel room. It was small and shabby and smelled vaguely musty, but despite his winnings at poker McCoy didn't feel comfortable renting something nicer. _Lady Luck might not be so kind tomorrow. Besides, there's a few things I need. A change of clothes, for starters._

His outfit, designed to blend into the Vulcan of the past, wasn't too bad, but he was a man used to pulling a fresh uniform from the laundry slot whenever he chose, and cleaning facilities in this time were a lot less efficient.

_Hell, when did I start sounding like Spock?_

Unfortunately, one of the things he _couldn't_ obtain were the ingredients for phosphophthylate, given that it was refined from a plant native to Tythonus III. _Too bad. If I could whip up the antidote, I wouldn't have much to worry about in the meantime._

After all, this century offered some interesting distractions...

McCoy found himself smiling at the memory of his meal with the charming detective. As she'd promised, the mimosas were excellent, though he'd passed up the lobster salad in favor of a steak sandwich, and they'd bantered and flirted their way through the meal--two people enjoying each other's company without strings. Sofia had lovely eyes and a charming laugh, and McCoy was willing to bet that she had felt the same delicate stirrings of attraction that he had.

But he wasn't Jim, prone to jump into bed with whoever came along as long as she was female and attractive. It seemed to work for _Enterprise's_ Captain, but McCoy considered himself more selective. Besides, half the fun was the chase.

He'd even still enjoyed himself when he'd remembered that the steak came from an actual cow, and Sofia hadn't commented when he'd left the last quarter of his sandwich on the plate. McCoy wondered just when French fries had gone out of style, and why.

_Maybe I can get Scotty to program them into the dispensers. _

_...If I make it back._

He rolled over onto his side, the one that wasn't tender, and blinked at the squat version of what looked like a viewscreen. He hadn't yet bothered to try to turn it on. _Face facts, Len my boy. Odds are you'll be dead inside a month. _

The thought had a strong tinge of desolation, but there was no horror. As a doctor, he'd seen and fought death thousands of times, and won a goodly percentage of those battles, but he also knew that for most species there came a time when death was the natural thing.

_On the other hand, we've all been close to death before...and we're all still alive._

He grunted softly, and tugged a pillow under his head. Part of him insisted he should be panicking, but the chief physician for a starship had to wear many hats, including that of psychiatrist. McCoy knew that his lack of reaction was due in part to the shock of temporal dislocation, but mostly it was just that he'd been through so much in his career that this was just one more thing. He'd been in weirder situations, in much more dangerous ones--_facing down the entire Rihannsu High Council, for one, and most of them out for my blood--_even some in other times.

_And I'm still here._

His will, back on the _Enterprise, _was up to date. His pension would go to his daughter, and aside from a few knickknacks he didn't have a lot of belongings to worry about. _That's the trouble with the spacer life. You don't have room to carry much around with you._

He would regret leaving his friends, McCoy thought, and there was no telling what kind of wet-behind-the-ears youngster they'd get to replace him given that Dr. M'Benga had left, but on the whole he didn't have many regrets, and most of those were old companions.

_Pity I can't say goodbye to Jim and Spock, and Scotty and Nyota and all the others. But how often does anybody get to say their farewells before they pass on? _

Deep in his heart, where he was carefully not acknowledging it, was the knowledge that Spock was going to be crushed if he didn't find McCoy in time. The situation wasn't the Science Officer's fault--not really--but he would blame himself all the same.

McCoy scratched his nose and closed his eyes. Since Spock hadn't turned up right after McCoy had fallen through the Guardian, there must be some temporal law or something keeping him from doing so.

_Or he isn't turning up because he won't find me at all. _

With a deliberate effort, McCoy let the thought go, and composed himself for sleep. He needed the rest.

_Remember the rules. Never start fights with Romulan commanders; always bet on the Horta; and sooner or later you'll be awake for thirty hours doing combat surgery. _He snorted softly. _So sleep while you can. _

He let himself slide into oblivion.

_************************_

Sofia found herself humming on the way to work, which was so cliché that she rolled her eyes and made herself stop. But her good mood persisted.

_Well, when __**was**__ the last time you were out on a date?_

She had to admit, she'd had a great time, no matter if the whole thing was spur of the moment. Len was funny, smart, and extremely courteous, and had made it clear without words that he had no expectations beyond sharing dinner and a little light flirting.

Sofia appreciated that, very much.

He'd tried to pay for dinner, too, but Sofia had drawn the line at that and they'd gone dutch. Still, it had been...nice...to be the focus of someone's flattering attention for a couple of hours, to be regarded as an attractive woman rather than a threat, a minion, or even a co-worker.

As if responding to her mood, the shift was an easy one, with no bloodbaths or truly puzzling cases. Sofia had time to remember the dinner--and reflect on the reasons why she didn't date much any more.

_No time_ was a big reason, of course; working night shift was another and her profession was a third. Being a cop held a certain glamour for a guy, but for a woman mostly what it got her was the kinks who just wanted her to use her handcuffs.

Len had been a refreshing change.

Sofia frowned a little as she drove back from a scene. "Come to think of it," she muttered to herself, "I don't really know much more than I did when he was a suspect." He'd managed to deflect most of her curiosity, instead drawing her out about her work and life, though he had related a tale or two about interesting or intractable patients. Yet he had none of the smell of a scam artist.

_Well, people come to Vegas to get away from their lives for a while. Probably that's all it is. _She smiled sourly. "Not everybody who's private is guilty of something."

This time, at the end of shift, Sofia went to the nearest grocery store, stopping by the florist to pick up a bouquet of mixed flowers before heading for the edge of the city. The path, traced once a week, was automatic by now, but Sofia was never unaware of the blossoms lying on the passenger seat of her car, nor of the reason behind them.

The cemetery was relatively new, and not very stylish. Sofia parked and took the flowers and her sunglasses, and walked out into the morning glare, following the paved driveway into the artificial green of the well-tended lawn. She could have driven closer, but somehow that seemed disrespectful, and Sofia often remembered Grissom's statement about small rituals in daily life. The walk was her way of shedding work concerns and stress.

She swung wide to avoid disturbing an interment, and eventually came to the two bronze plaques set flush into the turf; one a bit tarnished, one still shiny-new. Last week's bouquet was long gone, cleared away by the groundskeepers.

Sofia let herself down onto the grass and laid the flowers neatly between the plaques. "Hi Mom," she said softly, and nothing more.

During the past three months Sofia had spent hours talking in this spot, ranging from angry diatribes to tears to just quiet recitations of her latest shift. But lately she seemed to have run out of things to say, and the knowledge gave her a bleak peace. Her relationship with her mother had never been an easy one, and the woman's sudden death had given them no chance to come to any terms. Sofia didn't really think her mother was _there_ listening to her words, but she'd spoken them nonetheless, and felt some of the anger and anguish ebb.

The truth was, with her mother gone, Sofia felt at a bit of a loss. All the expectations, the pressure, had died as well, and she had nothing to push against. It had made her start to rethink her life and career, and she was still thinking.

But at the moment, none of that was urgent. Sofia sat on the grass and remembered her parents--her gentle father, gone more than ten years now, and her mother, who had made police work her life's calling and had never quite seemed satisfied with her daughter's choices, though Sofia had never doubted her mother's love.

"I don't know," she said at last, speaking quietly even though there was no one living nearby. "Do you know how long it's been since I'd been on a date? Just a simple date."

She sighed, and pushed her hair behind her ears. "Maybe it's time I changed my priorities."

No maternal scold broke the peace of the morning, not even an imaginary one, and Sofia smiled wryly.

_************************_

Four nights later, a high roller from Manila was found dead in his suite at New York, New York, and Brass assigned Sofia the lead on the case. Cause of death was no mystery--three stab wounds to the back had bled him out fairly quickly--and without signs of forced entry it looked as though the victim had let his killer in. Warrick took the room and Greg went to collect surveillance tapes, and Sofia busied herself interviewing casino personnel in hopes that someone had seen something.

It was all fairly straightforward, if sad, and Sofia was just finishing an interview with a blackjack dealer on the main floor when she sensed someone watching her.

She thanked the woman and sent her back to work, then turned, half-expecting an overcurious bystander or potential witness. Instead, blue eyes met her own, and Len McCoy smiled easily at her. "Hard at work, Detective?"

She smiled back, surprised and pleased. "You could say that, yeah."

Len was wearing a polo shirt and jeans, she noticed with the quick sweep of the trained observer; the shirt set off his eyes, but he'd stuck with the same soft boots he'd been wearing three days before. He looked relaxed but at the same time still tired, and genuinely glad to see her.

"Dare I ask?" he said, stepping a little closer to get out of the path of a passing waitress.

Sofia shrugged. "There was a death in one of the suites, and that's all I can tell you."

Some people tried to coax more from her when she made such statements, but she didn't expect Len to do so, and he did not disappoint her. "Right. Well, it's serendipity for me anyway. Care to join me after you finish up here, ma'am?"

Sofia felt her lips turn up. Len raised one finger admonitorily. "I'm buyin', this time," he added in a firm tone.

She hesitated, then wondered why. "Sure. This could take several hours, though."

Len shrugged in turn. "I'm in no hurry."

The cynical part of her half-expected him to be gone by the time she'd wrapped up the questionings and written a preliminary report, but when she made it back to the casino he was sitting at the bar as promised, nursing a glass of what looked to be whisky and chatting easily with the bartender. He glanced up before Sofia reached him, and the slow, appreciative smile that spread over his face had her insides warming, and she returned it.

By the time she'd settled onto the stool next to him a mimosa had been placed in front of her. A little surprised that Len had remembered, Sofia tilted it to him in a toast. "Your health."

His mouth twisted, but he raised his glass back at her. "And yours."

They had both finished their second drinks by the time they got around to actually eating--at least, it was her second, though Len showed no signs of intoxication. He had spaghetti and she had pancakes, and he made her laugh by telling her more patient stories. And while she'd had the feeling all along that he was still hiding something, she couldn't bring herself to care very much. _Everyone's entitled to some privacy._

In turn, she told him about some of the dumber criminals she'd encountered, or the weirder cases that weren't confidential. Vegas had double its share of peculiarities, to be sure, and Len was a good listener, leaning back in the restaurant booth and watching her with crinkled eyes.

Abruptly Sofia had to smother a yawn. "Damn, I'm sorry. Guess it's my bedtime." When she glanced at her watch she was surprised to see that it was _past_ her bedtime.

Len sat up. "Forgive me for keeping you out late, m'dear. It's been quite a while since I've had such attractive company."

Again, the line was hackneyed, but Len somehow managed to sound completely sincere, a gentleman offering a compliment as he might a flower, without trying to diminish her. Sofia smiled at him, touched, and reminded that he was an attractive man. Older than she, sure, but she happened to_ like _older men.

So she let her smile go a little more sultry. "Me too."

Len chuckled, reached across the table, and lifted her hand to his lips without taking his eyes from hers. "Then we should remedy the situation. Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner? Or whatever meal you call it right before night shift."

Sofia cocked her head and regarded him, the feel of his kiss not yet fading, and decided that caution could go screw itself--she still had her gun. "I'd like that, Len."

_************************_

_I do love a strong woman._ McCoy sat in the poorly sprung chair that his motel room provided and used the remote device to flip through the various offerings on the viewscreen. The machine was muted, but most of what it was showing was either dead boring or simply incomprehensible, and he played with it mostly to pass the time. He was getting sleepy, which was a good thing; his sleep cycle had been thrown way out of whack by the time displacement, and seemed to be settling more on a nocturnal setting at the moment. He refused to worry about it.

_If Spock's going to find me, it won't matter if I'm awake or asleep._

He had to wonder a bit at his own recklessness; asking a police detective for a date, particularly one as sharp as Sofia, was just _asking_ for trouble. _But what the hell else am I going to do to pass the time?_ Within a few weeks he'd either be dead, or vanished back into his own time; and while he wasn't one to play with hearts, a little feminine company was sweet, and certainly nicer than just keeping to himself.

And Sofia was smart, and thoughtful, and her mouth had a lovely curve, and he really wanted to find out what that long hair would feel like in his hands. _And she's not looking for anything more either._

McCoy palpated his side carefully. The tenderness was no more advanced; he suspected the infestation was entering its final stage, stalling its growth in favor of maturity. _The good thing about this--the __**only**__ good thing--is that the damn critters won't survive once they break out of me. _Earth's atmosphere held far too much carbon dioxide for them; no one else would die from what he carried.

So, he calculated, he had maybe two weeks, maybe three. _Get a move on, Spock._

_****_

He slept for a few hours, then woke again, too early to meet Sofia for dinner. McCoy spent half an hour in the shower--water was a luxury for a shipboard man used to sonics--but even that left him too much time, and he didn't feel like fleecing any more poker players at the moment. So he dressed in another set of his newly purchased clothing and set off for the other haven he'd discovered--the library.

He'd tumbled out of the Great Mojave that first day, pockets fuller than when he'd entered, and wandered for a while, just taking in the town, before spotting the big building and its inviting shelves. Books, actual physical books, were something he'd appreciated for a long time, though a starship's living quarters didn't have much room for such extras. Being surrounded by thousands of them--even if they were all antiques by his standards--and having no pressing business was a luxury.

The first day, it had been mystery novels. Then he'd moved on to medicine, sternly repressing the urge to scribble corrections all over the margins of those he picked off the shelves.

Today, McCoy decided, he had a yen to find out how history looked from, well, this point in history. He strolled up and down the pertinent shelves, head tilted to read the titles, filling his arms with whatever looked interesting--mostly books about the settling of the American West, along with a few concerning the War Between the States.

But it wasn't until he was making his second pass that he realized what was missing.

_Wait. It's 2008, right? _He blinked at the shelf in front of his nose. Cold War, Gulf War, Afghanistan, Iraq...

_Where the hell are the Eugenics Wars? _

It took him an hour to be certain, but there was no mention of the Wars in any book that he consulted. No mention, in fact, of augmented humans at all, nothing about Khan or any of the leaders. A discreet query at the information desk brought only puzzlement from the librarian, and directions to the fiction section.

Baffled, suspicious, beginning to be scared, McCoy sat at a corner desk surrounded by the books he'd pulled and tried to think. History as he knew it seemed to be pretty consistent to the point of the late 1980s, but after that--

He couldn't imagine censorship to the point of no one knowing anything about the Wars a mere decade or so later. _Which means..._

Temporal physics had never been his strong point; he left that to minds like Spock's or K's't'lk's, and concentrated on dealing with the here and now. _But my now isn't here--or is it that my here isn't now? _

McCoy suppressed a dizzy snicker. _Looks like you're not just lost in time, Len my boy. _

Under the stunned feeling, he wondered idly if the phaser blasts had had something to do with it, or whether trips to alternate realities was an ability the Guardian of Forever had just not happened to mention. Somehow, the latter didn't seem very likely.

He wasn't just lost in time; he was lost among realities, different _strands_ of time. And what little he knew about such things told him that alternate realities sprang up constantly, countless divergences every second.

_There is no way in hell Spock is going to be able to find me._

_****_

McCoy came back to himself more than a mile from the library, wandering along the city streets, and smiled to himself with grim humor, diagnosing mild shock. _No surprise there. There's a difference between accepting the possibility of death, and accepting its inevitability. _

Still, nothing had really changed. He was still stranded in a twenty-first-century Las Vegas, alone but not quite friendless, and neither destitute or without resources. He had enough money for maybe a week, and given a day or so and a bit of help from Lady Luck, he could double that.

_In fact, I've got nothing to worry about._ His immediate needs were taken care of, and he wasn't going to _have_ any future needs.

The thought was oddly freeing. McCoy straightened his shoulders, and turned back towards his motel. He had a date to get ready for, and after that he would enjoy whatever time he had left. No reason to do otherwise; moping wasn't his thing at all.

_Sure wish someone in this town played fizzbin, though._


	3. Chapter 3

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker, Paramount, the Bride of the Great Bird of the Galaxy, and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. All others are mine, and if you want to play with them you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: general eighth season. **

**All righty then. It's been more than a year since I posted the original story, and I didn't mean for it to go further, but Mossley wrote such a great take on the idea that I had to, well, finish. So here it is at last, just in time for her birthday. Many happy returns of the day, Mossley, and thanks for both your patience and a really terrific Sofia/McCoy tale! **

**We're all still nutbars, though. **

**Thanks also to Cincoflex, for betaing supreme, and everyone else who squeed at the idea. Also, discerning fans will realize that I owe a great deal to Diane Duane's stellar ST:TOS novels, which to me are more canon than the actual canon. I hope she doesn't mind my mentioning a few incidents here.**

_************************_

_I so need this._ Sofia hurried through her shower and makeup, still stressed from a night of endless petty annoyances. Investigations that went nowhere, fruitless searches, suspects that mouthed off to her and then spilled their guts to Vartann, evidence gone missing because Dayshift didn't document it properly--none of these were much on their own, but the accumulated effect made her want to scream, or shoot something.

_Possibly both._

Still, the prospect of a date was a great antidote. Len was courteous, smart, funny, charming, and quite handsome in his own way, and Sofia was determined to wrest _some_ enjoyment out of the morning if she could. It wasn't often that she encountered a man who could make her feel deliciously feminine without also making her feel as if he regarded her as weaker, or lesser.

She'd just slipped on her shoes when the thought occurred to her. Sofia hesitated, hearing her mother's voice in her head, and then reached down to the bottom of the little bookshelf next to her bed.

The expiration date on the package was coming up, but the condoms were still good. She dumped a couple out, and with only a brief pause shoved them into her purse before putting the box back.

"Probably nothing'll happen," she muttered. "But you never know."

And any cop worth their salt knew to be prepared.

_****_

She didn't know quite what to expect when she walked into the restaurant lobby, but when Sofia spotted Len in a button-down shirt and slacks she grinned in quick appreciation. Without a coat he was almost too casual for the tapas place, but not quite; instead, he just looked relaxed. She tugged down the hem of her own jacket just to make sure it was straight; the black silk pants and silk Chinese-style jacket fit her well, but the thing did have a tendency to ride up.

Then Len saw her, and the way his face lit up made the past night suddenly insignificant. A little giddy, she came forward to meet him.

"Well, Detective," he drawled, taking the hand she held out in both of his. "You look _magnificent._"

Sofia smiled wider, and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, not missing his sudden intake of breath. He smelled _good._ "You're not so bad yourself."

Len grinned, looped her arm through his again, and guided her towards the hostess. "I do have a question, though. What the hell is a tapa?"

She had to laugh. "I'll show you."

The food was excellent, and they debated over the various offerings, ordering and eating over and over again, trying new things each time. Len seemed to avoid meat, Sofia noticed, though not shellfish; it puzzled her slightly, because she knew he wasn't a vegetarian, but eventually she figured he just might have a touchy stomach. He did veto the breaded squid with such firmness that Sofia changed her mind about ordering it for herself, but that was a small matter.

They talked about food. Len seemed to have eaten a wide variety of dishes, even if he hadn't heard of tapas, but Sofia countered with tales of the French dishes her father would make, earthy country cooking that was deceptively simple.

He was _easy_ to talk to, and funny. They flirted delicately throughout dinner, and unlike her last couple of dates Sofia did not find herself hoping that she would be interrupted by a call-in. In fact, she was insanely tempted to shut her phone _off._

They lingered over coffee and dessert, taking up table space without shame, gradually leaning closer over the tablecloth in the slow dance she knew. Her laugh got lower, his smile grew more intimate, and Sofia realized that at some point during their time she'd made up her mind.

So Len surprised her when he sighed, his expression going a little melancholy. "Sofia, m'dear, I still don't know much about this city of yours. Care to show me a few of the sights?"

It took a bit of mental scrambling to catch up with him. She was almost hurt by his words, but one thing about being a detective--or a CSI--was that it taught you to _think_ about what people said. _Either he's giving me space, or there's something going on with him._

"Sure. It's not too hot yet," she told him, smiling, and after a moment his lips curved upward in return.

Len paid for dinner with cash, which was slightly unusual, but not too much so for a gambler. He tucked her arm through his once more as they stepped outside, and Sofia slipped on her sunglasses; Len squinted, but didn't seem overly bothered by the glare. "You've seen the Strip--there's the zoo, the roller coasters, the Liberace Museum, Madame Tussaud's..." She tried to recall more. "There's a number of parks, and the shark exhibit at Mandalay Bay."

"How about that last?" he said, almost automatically. Sofia looked around, calculated distances, and shrugged.

"It's easier to walk than fight for parking."

So they walked. She might almost have pulled away, except the pressure of his arm on hers was _active_ somehow, as if he wanted the touch. Baffled but not unwilling, Sofia guided him, chatting idly about the history of the city and wondering when he would tell her what was going on.

It took almost _three _blocks, longer than she expected. Len suddenly halted in the middle of a fortunately sparsely-populated sidewalk and swung around to face her, turning their linked arms into a grip on both her hands. "Sofia," he began...and stopped.

Sofia arched a brow at him, and waited with a professionally honed patience. Len grimaced, let out a breath, and spoke again. "I'm enjoying your company very much, and I'd like to enjoy more of it...if you're willin'." His eyes met hers with a steady gaze that was so deeply melancholy that her throat ached at the sight. "But I only have a week, maybe two, before I have to--leave. And I won't be coming back."

Sofia considered him gravely. It was pretty clear that he wasn't going to tell her his secrets, and yet it didn't seem to matter so much. "Are you in trouble with the law?" she asked quietly.

Len blinked, looking honestly startled. "Me? No, not at all."

Sofia nodded, freed one hand, and reached up to trace that surprisingly mobile mouth, aware of a growing curiosity as to how it would feel on her skin. "Then I would love to spend more time with you, Len," she told him in her best sultry tone.

The slow smile that crinkled his eyes was downright beautiful, and his hands were gentle as they slipped around her waist. His lips were equally gentle, and Sofia let her hand find the nape of his neck, returning his leisurely exploration with interest. And couldn't bring herself to care that she was kissing someone in the middle of a public sidewalk.

_What the hell. This __**is**__ Vegas. _

_****_

He couldn't keep his hands out of her hair. The thick stuff was as gorgeous to the touch as it was to the eyes, and McCoy found himself stroking it lightly even as he tried not to disturb Sofia's drowse. She lay curled neatly on her side, long-lashed eyes closed, and he propped his head on his other fist and just watched her, appreciating her beauty.

_I wish I could offer you more._ It felt strange, this intense attraction to someone he really didn't know, but there was more to life than logic, as he kept trying to tell Spock. There was affection, and attraction, and physical lust...lovely, lovely lust.

It had actually been a long time since he'd spent any time with a partner. Shipboard romances did happen, but generally he tried to avoid them; when one was both the psychologist and the chief surgeon for everyone on board, emotional entanglements could get tricky indeed--not to mention the ethical implications.

But there were none here. And Sofia was a delightful lover--generous, enthusiastic, experienced...and able to laugh. McCoy had to grin a little at the memory of his first encounter with a condom; fortunately, he'd been able to cover his blunder with a comment that it had been a long time since he'd had opportunity to use one. Which was true enough. He knew what they _were_, but it had been many years since his medical history classes, and primitive contraception had been only a small part of those.

Of course, it was no good telling her that his annual injection would ensure that he was infertile, so he'd gone along with the process, and certainly having her put it on him had been...enticing. And her laughter had been kind and her smile inviting--

_Oh, calm down,_ he told his overeager body silently. _Let the poor girl sleep._ She had the night off, she'd said, but it was clear from the shadows beneath her eyes that she needed the rest. And while she might not even believe he actually was a physician, well, he _was._ Diagnosis and the imperative to heal was as automatic as breathing.

Sofia sighed, and McCoy looked away, afraid his gaze might wake her. Her apartment was dim with the shades pulled against the desert sun, but little gleams edged in around the windows. It was a comfortable, slightly messy space--the living quarters of someone who had little time to spend on housework, with a faint film of dust on various surfaces and a plant drooping beneath one window. Comfortable...but not very lived-in.

When he glanced back down, Sofia was regarding him with a soft, lazy expression, the corners of her mouth curling up. "Hi," she said throatily.

McCoy reached out to stroke a strand of hair from her eyes. "Hi there."

The smile widened, and one cool hand touched his collarbone and began to trail slowly downward. "A week, huh?"

Melancholia didn't have a chance against the sensations produced by her caress, and McCoy struggled to keep his eyes from crossing. "About, yes ma'am."

"Better make the most of it then," she purred, and pulled him down to her.

_****_

Later, in the warmth and closeness, McCoy indulged himself. "How'd you end up a detective, Detective?" He looked down at the head resting on his shoulder. "I'm just curious, mind."

Sofia's soft laugh had a bitter edge. "Aren't you going to add that it's a dirty job for such a pretty lady?"

"Fishin' for compliments?" He smiled, until he saw that she meant it. "Good grief, no. What's your looks got to do with it?"

She tilted her head up to regard him for a long moment, but in the end she seemed to believe him, and relaxed again. "My mom was a cop," she said after a moment. "She always wanted better for me. Especially since I was an only kid."

It was plain from the tone of her voice that there was more to it than that. McCoy waited, and when she said nothing he made an encouraging noise. Eventually Sofia sighed.

"My dad always told me I could be anything I wanted, but Mom was the practical one. She was right, you know--I'm too big to be a classical dancer and the only way to be an astronaut these days is to be military or a scientist." She shrugged. "There's never enough cops or CSIs, and the pay's not great but the work's a challenge."

He could understand that. People had to work for a living, that was true the Galaxy over, and for everyone who found their dream job there were a hundred who just went about making ends meet. He pressed his nose into that shining hair, and waited some more.

"I suppose I could do something else, now that they're both gone," Sofia mused after a while. "But I don't know _what_ I'd do."

McCoy pulled her a little closer. "What do you _want_ to do?"

Her finger traced his collarbone again, this time absently. "Go back to school. See the world, maybe. But that takes money."

"Join the Merchant Marines," McCoy suggested dryly, and Sofia giggled, an unexpected sound that made him smile.

"I'll take it under advisement," she told him, and fell silent again, and he couldn't help picturing her in Starfleet red. She'd be damn good with a phaser, he knew.

_I wish I could show you the Galaxy._

But some things just weren't possible.

_****_

Several hours later Sofia was showering, and McCoy--clean and dry himself--was trying to figure out how the stove in her little kitchen worked. Every time he twisted a knob, he could smell the gas and would shut it off hastily; if there was some kind of striking device, it wasn't obvious. The can of soup had a pull top, at least, even if he'd sat waiting for five minutes for it to heat up before realizing that it was purely mechanical.

He was trying the fourth knob for the third time when he felt the room's air pressure change. Turning, McCoy was only slightly surprised to see Spock standing in the middle of Sofia's tiny dining room, wobbling a little and holding a tricorder in one hand.

"Well, hot damn, Spock, I should have known better than to give up on you," he said, grinning widely.

Spock steadied himself and took in the apartment in one quick glance before fixing his gaze on McCoy. "Yes, Doctor, you should have," he replied, and only someone who had known him for years could detect both the tease and the relief in those inscrutable eyes. He was dressed in much the same clothing as McCoy had been when he'd fallen through the Guardian, but the tricorder wasn't standard issue for either the Vulcan of the past or this branch of Earth's history.

McCoy held out a hand. "Gimme."

Without a word, Spock reached into the pouch at his waist and came out with a spray hypo--again, not chronologically proper, but McCoy didn't care. He reached over the breakfast bar and took it, pressing it to his bicep and injecting it with one smooth practiced motion before letting out a sigh of relief. _There. That'll do it._

Or not quite, but it would halt the infestation, and further treatments would eradicate it. Life stood open before him once more, and it made him a little giddy. "How'd you find me? I thought the alternate reality problem was supposed to be too big to solve."

Spock took the hypo back and tucked it away scrupulously. "I had to enlist the help of the Guardian. The calculations did take some time." His glance was hooded. "It is...good...to find you still among the living, Doctor."

"Yeah." McCoy rubbed his temple, acknowledging the offering and still too relieved to tease Spock about it. "When we get back you can explain why it took a damn _week._"

"Temporal dislocations--" Spock began, then shook his head. "Later. Your possessions, Doctor--"

McCoy slapped his pockets, where he had his dispenser and a couple of other items and shook his head. "What I don't have with me can stay. But there's--"

Spock was staring over McCoy's shoulder, holding absolutely still, and McCoy sobered, turning. Sofia stood in the doorway to the hall, barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair wet and her gun aimed unwaveringly at Spock.

_****_

Whatever secret she had imagined McCoy keeping hadn't included a weird-looking guy in the middle of her apartment, come to take him away if the conversation she'd overheard was what it sounded like. An escapee from a _Lord of the Rings_ reenactment, it appeared, who moreover had somehow entered without setting off her very high-quality alarm system. She didn't glance at Len, though she addressed her words to him. "Did you let him in?"

She knew he hadn't; he didn't have the code. Len made a disgusted noise, though it didn't seem to be directed at her. "He let himself in, which is kind of hard to explain just at the moment. Sofia, can you trust me enough to put that barbaric thing down? I promise you nobody means you any harm."

Sofia cut him one hard glance. "I'm more worried that he means _you_ harm." But he didn't look like he was lying, and the taller man wasn't making any threatening moves. After a moment, she went with her gut and lowered her gun.

Len blew out a breath. The tall man relaxed infinitesimally, and bowed his head just slightly to her. "Dr. McCoy is quite correct," he said, with a hint of accent she couldn't quite identify. "I assure you, we are simply...passing through."

She looked to Len again, who was fidgeting. "'We'?"

He grimaced, and the expression was astonishingly sad. "Yeah. Looks like my week isn't a week after all."

"Ah." The pang of hurt was deeper than she expected, and Sofia immediately shoved it back down. _He didn't promise you a thing. You knew this was a fling when you got into it._ She shifted her gun to one hand and let it hang; the holster was back in her bedroom. The tall man still didn't move, which was reassuring. "Well, guess this is goodbye, then."

She kept her voice cool and her chin high. Len frowned, a suddenly ferocious expression, and looked across her breakfast bar at the intruder. "Is there a mass limit?"

The tall man blinked, regarding Len with what looked like very restrained disapproval. "Surely you are not suggesting--"

"I damn well _am,_" Len snapped. "If this is an alternate branch--"

"Temporal alterations are not to be taken lightly, Doctor--"

"I don't give a damn, she's not nodal--"

Sofia frowned, trying and failing to figure out what they were arguing about. "Excuse me--"

Neither one paused. "You have no way of knowing that," the tall man said.

Len folded his arms. "Then scan her." He pointed his chin at the device. "Don't tell me you don't have the Guardian hooked into that thing, because I know you _do._"

The tall man's eyes narrowed in what looked like annoyance, and he pointed the boxy object at Sofia. She tensed, but all it did was chirp, and one of the man's brows shot up. "Confirmed. She is not nodal."

"Ex_cuse_ me. What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" Sofia interjected with more force. "What's _nodal?_"

Len looked at the other man, clearly waiting. The thin lips tightened, but he answered. "In this situation, it means that your existence does not have a significant effect on your time stream from this point on."

Sofia had encountered many people in her line of work who could only be termed _nuts._ She'd seen the most elaborate scenarios, the people who were utterly convinced that their delusions were real. What these two were saying was not only crazy, it made no sense at all--and they believed it.

And yet, she just couldn't believe Len was that kind of insane.

"Am I supposed to be insulted?" was the only thing she could think of to say. The tall man didn't crack a smile, but Len snorted, and took two steps to stand in front of her. Ignoring the gun, he put his hands on her shoulders, gripping firmly and looking straight into her eyes.

"Sofia," he said softly. "I don't have time to explain any of this, and I know you don't have much reason to trust me. But I'm askin' you to come with me. Permanently."

The idea was just as insane as the argument. Sofia tried to frown at him, but his gaze was compelling. "Go...where? Just leave my whole life behind, you mean?"

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching, as if he recognized the absurdity. "Darlin', you wanted a change."

"Doctor--" The word was a warning, but McCoy shook his head, not looking away.

"Go where?" Sofia repeated, more strongly. "Dammit, Len, you can't expect me to just--" She trailed off, not even sure what he was asking of her.

"Call it the future," Len said, his tone suddenly merry. "You wanted to be an astronaut, well, we have spaceships that travel the galaxy. You could see whole worlds instead of just countries. Learn things that don't even exist now."

Crazy. He really was crazy, and yet she couldn't quite shake him off and shoo them both out of her apartment and her life. _What life?_ some part of her suddenly asked. _A job you don't like and an empty apartment, no time to do anything else--why __**not**__? _

"Because it's insane," she muttered, half to herself, half to the man still gripping her shoulders. "There's no such thing as time travel."

"Not _now _there isn't," Len said, his lips twitching.

The tall man let out an almost inaudible sigh. "Mz. Sofia. I assure you that while Dr. McCoy's suggestion is extremely irresponsible, it is in fact possible. However, you should be aware that there is no possibility of return." His gaze was calm. "Should you choose to accompany us, you will never come back."

She _wanted_ to believe them, Sofia realized. She ached with wanting, with the idea that there was a reality out there with spaceships and other planets and so much _more_ than what she saw around her every day. But to never return--

Actually, it didn't sound all that terrible.

Sure, it was impossible. Except that the tall man _couldn't_ have come through her door. And whatever the future was like, it had produced Len, who was kind and sweet and charming. Sofia bit her lip, and felt the weight of the gun in her hand.

"I...all right."

Len's face lit up like a sunrise, and she couldn't help smiling back, though her entire body felt shaky. "I--can I take something with me?" Visions of _Terminator_ flashed through her head, though the tall man was dressed and composed and held his strange device.

"If you can carry it," Len said. "But we'll have to hurry."

"Two minutes," Sofia told him, and half-ran back to her bedroom.

She didn't let herself think about what was about to happen, because she knew if she did she would never have the courage to go back out to the main room. Instead she pulled an old daypack from her closet and tossed in her wallet, a hairbrush, a few pieces of jewelry--mostly random grabs, because who knew what their "future" held?

The framed photo of her parents, though, was a deliberate choice. Sofia added her journal and a couple of pens, thrust her feet into shoes, and spotted her gun where she'd laid it on the bed. Tearing out a sheet from the journal, she picked up one of the pens.

_I left of my own free will,_ she scribbled, a message to whoever came to investigate when she turned up missing. _I'm going to a new life and I won't be coming back. Will is in safe-deposit box._

She added the bank name, signed and dated the note, and left it weighed down on her bed with her gun and badge. A few people would miss her, she knew, and while they might or might not believe her statement, it was at least better than an empty apartment with no clue at all. She wondered abruptly which shift would land the case, and shook her head, snatching up the bag.

The two men were still waiting in her living room. The tall man looked as if he'd lost an argument, but Len held out a hand, and Sofia stepped forward and took it. His grip was warm and firm, and she felt an unaccustomed upwelling of excitement.

"Ready?" he asked, and she grinned at him.

"As I'll ever be."

"Please do not move, Mz. Sofia," the tall man said, and tapped a button on his device. Sofia tightened her hold on Len's hand, half-expecting nothing to happen at all...or, worse, to find herself alone.

Things wavered, shimmered, and then _shifted._ Sofia sucked in a breath, and heard Len laugh with joy. His hand around hers never loosened.

In the empty apartment, the papers ruffled by the sudden intake of air settled back into place.

End.


End file.
